


Sing me a song, of a lad that is gone

by graham_humberts_shoelace



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Outlander (TV)
Genre: F/M, In which Jon gets sent back in time and falls in love with Lady Sansa Stark, Jon Snow's kink is red hair but we been knew, Jon and Sansa aren't related, Jon and the Starks aren't related ayy, Jon is Claire and Sansa is Jamie, Outlander AU, Yeah probably - Freeform, ps the Targaryens aren't getting paid any attention in this I don't like em sorry, sorta - Freeform, technical cheating but does it really count when you're in the past, there's not gonna be much focus on Ygritte btw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:54:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24216967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graham_humberts_shoelace/pseuds/graham_humberts_shoelace
Summary: Jon Snow has tied the knot with the love of his life, Ygritte. It's a quiet ceremony, and their honeymoon, you ask? Winterfell, the castle that had once belonged to the infamous and long gone Stark family.After days spent in their bedroom, the pair decide to journey to the Godswood, still in tact after all these years of neglect. While alone, Jon finds himself oddly drawn to the Heart Tree. And when he touches the face carved there?Well, he finds himself thrown to the ground, or, more specifically, into the arms of a woman.A woman, he learns, is Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell.
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Ygritte (brief), Roslin Frey/Robb Stark
Comments: 46
Kudos: 136





	1. The vanishing of Jon Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ygritte and Jon celebrate their honeymoon... and in which Jon lands on the lap of a stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen............ Jon Snow at this point looks like Kit in his film Testament of Youth. Aka shorter hair, clean shaven, generally well put together lmao. But don't worry long haired and bearded Jon shall appear eventually uwu

Jon Snow marries his childhood sweetheart, Ygritte, on a warm summer's day. They marry on June 15th, and it's a small, simple affair. Given that Jon tends to be a loner (as Ygritte will put it with a grin), and that Ygritte's louder personality sometimes throws people off, their friends are few. But that only means their bonds run deeper.

They only bid farewell to Sam and Gilly before heading off on their honeymoon to Winterfell.

It's a town that has always fascinated Jon, with its deep history involving the Starks. The family goes all the way back to the 'Long Night', a folk tale involving what can only be described as ice zombies. He's always been intrigued with the family history, at the customs and traditions, the symbolism with their direwolves. Jon's not sure if he even believes in the idea of wolves as big as horses but... well it's always fun to think about. 

Ygritte had never really been one for history. But she'd always listened to Jon whenever he talked about aspects of history he found interesting. She'd ask questions, but he could see she wasn't too interested. So, he tried not to bore her with it, and when suggesting Winterfell for their honeymoon, he brings up their famous hot springs in particular.

That's enough to sell it to her, quite frankly.

* * *

"Here's your room keys," the old woman tells them kindly, depositing a set of keys into Jon's hand. "I hope you have a lovely stay." and with that, she wanders off down the halls.

"You reckon she was here when this place was built?" Ygritte grins, taking the keys from him and opening the door to their rooms.

"Be nice," Jon says, shaking his head fondly at her. "...at most probably when they started moving furniture in."

A bark of laughter escapes her and she closes the door, before turning around and leaning against the door. She smiles coyly at him, crooking a finger and beckoning him to her. Jon moves without thinking, reaching out and grabbing Ygritte's hips, giving them a gentle squeeze. "Y'think everyone in this damn castle would hear us?" she ponders, raising her brows at him with a smirk.

"You are loud," he grins, pressing a kiss to her neck and receiving a breathy hum in response. "But I've always liked that about you."

Ygritte grins wolfishly at him, trailing a hand down his chest and into his trousers, gripping onto his half hard member. "Oh, I'm well aware of how much you like me, Jon Snow."

* * *

Their days are rarely spent out of their chambers. 

Occasionally Jon will venture out to get them food, but other than that they remain there, making love on whatever surface they find. Ygritte never did like the term 'making love', declaring it too flowery for an act involving his cock and her cunt and a lot of sweat and grunting. Jon tended to agree with her, but a little part of him had always liked the term. It means more than sex or fucking, to him, holds a deeper meaning, even. Ygritte rolls her eyes fondly at him for that, nothing but love in her eyes as she teases him about deeper meanings and how he knows nothing.

It had been a long running joke between them, stemming from a teacher in school shrieking that Jon knows nothing. The words felt sweet coming from Ygritte's lips, though.

Often, it reminds him of their first time together. When they'd wound up caught in the rain and had sought shelter in a cave. It had been pleasantly warm despite the downpour, and they'd bought started stripping, knowing sharing their body heat would be crucial at such a time. 

The playful ribbing was of course soon struck up, and Ygritte had tossed her hair at him at one point, closing her eyes with a sigh.

"You know nothing, Jon Sn- _oh_..."

As it so happens to turn out, Jon Snow knows a few things. Namely how to move his mouth and tongue in such a way that he had Ygritte sobbing from pleasure.

It's a rather nice talent to have, really. Even if it sometimes kills his jaw.

* * *

"Don't see why we should take a walk when we could be back in our bedroom..." Ygritte purrs, smiling up at Jon, her arm linked with his.

It's tempting. Some part of him wants to sling her over his shoulder and run back to their room and make love to her on every surface that is available to them. "We ought to take in some of the scenery, y'know. I thought you wanted to visit the hot springs?" he asks, smiling when she perks up a little at that.

"Well, how about I go right now?" she asks, smirking up at him. "That way you'll find me naked and _wet_." His mouth goes dry at the image, and he swallows hard, trousers feeling just a little tight.

"You do that," he growls, playfully nipping at her ear, resulting in a delighted shriek from his wife. "Wet in more ways than one, I should hope." 

"Always, crow." she grins, using the nickname from their childhood. It had been a game gone wrong, playing in some fields that unfortunately wound up with Jon being attacked by a bird. He never was able to tell the difference between a raven and a crow. 

"Go on, then. I'll catch up." he gives her a gentle squeeze on her backside, before lightly pushing her forward. A laugh escapes her and she grins wolfishly at him, before promptly speeding off in the direction of the hot springs, following the signs.

He watches her go, a fond smile tugging at his lips. He watches the light catch Ygritte's red hair, watches the breeze ruffle it. It looks like the flames of a fire, and he knows well enough that the Northern saying 'kissed by fire' is fitting for his wife. He'd always adored her hair.

Soon, he shakes himself out of it, looking at the ruins of Winterfell. The main castle is perfectly preserved. Several rooms are for couples such as he and his wife. Honeymooners, mostly, he thinks. He hasn't seen many people here in the times he's come out from his and Ygritte's bedroom. The rest of the castle is for guided tours, he gathers, showcasing the deep history of the castle and of the Starks who had lived here long ago. 

The last Stark, he believes, was a lad named Robert. He'd died at the age of 19 in the Somme. No siblings, father already dead, and his mother was said to have withered away from the grief of losing her child. Winterfell belonged to some sort of Trust now, dedicated to keeping the history of the castle alive with tourism and rooms for people to stay in.

He runs his hand over a piece of wall. The structure before him is rectangle, and goes on for a while, with every few meters another stone wall, or what's left of one. Stables, he realises. This used to be for their horses.

He can almost see them now, standing proud and waiting for their riders. Maybe into battle or merely into town to check on the smallfolk. He can almost smell the fresh hay and the dirt, can almost hear the shovels scraping the stone and the horses huffing every few minutes to cut through any silence. He'd rode horses as a boy, and his mother, Lyanna, had insisted he was a natural.

Jon drops his hand from the stone and takes a step back, shaking his head as if to clear it. He'd always had a creative imagination regarding history. His mind often ran away with him with the thought of knights, and lords and ladies, and the supposed White Walkers. Bizarre, really.

He clenches and unclenches his fist, and takes a deep breath. He continues down the path, running his hand through his hair and glancing at the ruins as he walks to the Godswood. The remains of a Sept, a large well, more crumbling walls where he can only _guess_ what they were long ago.

He stops at the entrance of the forest. It's oddly silent. Waiting.

For what, Jon has no idea. And for once... the unknown pushes him forward.

The Godswood looks like something right out of a fairytale. There's tall, winding trees, wildflowers blooming every few meters, what he's _certain_ are blue roses growing in a patch a little ways away. Perhaps on his way down he might try and take a few for Ygritte? He banishes the thought as quickly as it came. His wife has never been one for such... "feminine" gifts. Still, the thought is nice. Perhaps some other man will come across them and take some back to his own lover?

A smile tugs at his lips at that. Yes, he decides, that's what will happen.

And thus, he continues on, occasionally pausing to take in the scenery and just _marvel_ at the storybook esque feeling to the forest. Jon Snow has always been fascinated by nature, at the idea of living in the wild, hunting and foraging for his own meals. Ygritte had grinned at that, called him more wolf than man. 

Sometimes, he dreams he is. He dreams he's a beast as white as snow, with abnormal speed and strength when catching his prey. Sometimes, he'll stop for a drink by a river and catch sight of ruby red eyes. The sight more welcoming than unnerving. Sometimes, he dreams of a pack, of brothers and sisters who he plays with and protects. He feels particularly protective of the smallest wolf, the one with soft looking light grey fur and observant yellow eyes. He has no doubt that she can hold her own, he can tell because of how _ruthless_ she can be with her prey. Yet he can see she is the most gentle of the bunch, and he and the rest of their pack shall protect her. He too likes to observe his pack, silent as a... something.

 _Ghost_ , his brain whispers to him.

He tries not to think of the wolf as nothing more than a dream he gets once in a while. It's curious, more than anything. But he tries not to think too much about it. Dreams are just that... dreams. They usually tend not to stick to reality too much.

Soon, the Heart tree is before him. Snow white trunk and branches with blood red leaves, it easily towers above the rest of the trees, but it's more elegant than in your face obvious. It's... beautiful to look at. He can only imagine what this place looks like covered in snow the North is so famous for having often. He doesn't see a face carved into it.

It's a little disappointing, he won't lie. The trees are famous for the odd faces carved into them. He sighs, but makes his way closer to it. He runs his hand along the bark, slowly walking around the trunk of the tree. There it is. The face. 

He squints at it a moment, searching its features as if it holds the answers to the secrets of this ancient town, of its rich history. Absentmindedly, he touches his fingers to the face.

His hand _burns_. His vision swims. Oh christ- he thinks he might be sick. He squeezes his eyes shut to try and rid himself of the nausea from the shakiness of his vision, of the way his head pounds and his body thrums as if it's being touched by little electrical sparks.

Jon feels himself falling back and he braces himself, ready to hit his head and fall unconscious or something equally embarrassing like-

A grunt escapes him when his back hits the ground, but his head lands in something soft, something cushiony. He doesn't dare to open his eyes just yet, head still pounding. Jesus christ, thank god he'd found a soft patch of grass-

"...My Lord, I think you ought to remove your head from my lap." comes a pleasant, if not slightly tight and strained voice. _Oh christ, someone's come out here and found me fainting from touching a fucking tree. Ygritte's going to piss herself laughing once she finds out._

Jon cracks open an eye. Red hair swims in his vision. If he hadn't heard the woman speak, he might've thought it was Ygritte whose lap his head was laying on. Her hair is considerably more tamed than his wife's, and much longer. Softer looking too.

"My Lord?" she repeats, brows pinching together. "Are you well?" she asks him, and he jerks upright and off of her lap. Her hands are clasped together, as if she had been at prayer. _Impossible_ , he scoffs internally, _no one's prayed to these trees for years_. He slowly takes in her appearance. Her face is guarded, yet there is concern there. Her cheeks are high, brows delicately arched, eyes framed by thick lashes and so blue he's afraid he'll drown in them. He does not look at her lips. That is wrong on far too many levels. 

"I..." he coughs, looking at her dress. A soft grey looking material, with blue and green floral embroidery around the neck and waist. A dark cloak sits upon her shoulders, with a warm looking pelt sewn into it. Her hair is in some elaborate style he can't recall ever seeing before. "Ah... I see..." he chuckles, shaking his head. It must be a part of the tour, dressing up actors to look and act the part of the time. "My apologies for falling into your lap, miss...?"

An unamused brow arches at him, and she thins her lips to a purse, studying him a moment. "You don't know who I am?" she asks him, and he _does_ scoff out loud at that. 

_Actors_ , he thinks, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "I don't, no. Can't say I'm all that up to date with who's who in this town."

If anything, she looks a little bewildered at that. Not haughty or offended like he imagines most would be. "...Well, my Lord." she says after a moment of silence passes. "My name is Lady Sansa of House Stark, and you are...?"

"You're committed, I'll have to give you that." he mutters, nodding his head with respect. It's rather impressive to stay in character even after he fell into her lap. "Then tell me, Lady Sansa, what year is it, then?" he asks, arching his brows at her with amusement shining in his eyes.

"The year, my Lord?" she repeats, blue eyes searching his face, as if... what? Searching for some sort of head injury? He almost laughs himself silly at the thought. "305, though we do grow close to the end of the year."

He actually does chuckle. "I have to say, your devotion to your role is impressive, miss." 

'Sansa's' eyes narrow at that. "My role?" she asks, voice oddly cool.

"Yes...? Playing Sansa Stark, y'know... the eldest daughter of Eddard Stark, she died around 308 after childbirth, some sort of fever, I believe." he says slowly, looking at her. Distress seems to fill her face at that, along with a mounting alarm.

"You're a seer of some sorts?" her voice is sharp, rather thick sounding. He notes with some panic, that her eyes are wet. Oh _fuck_ , he _hates_ it when girls cry. He hates it even more when _he makes_ them cry. It makes him feel like utter shit and like bashing his head into a wall.

"I- I'm sorry, I won't keep questioning your role-" he stammers, and is surprised when she reaches out and grabs onto the collar of his shirt, eyes narrowed.

"What do you mean by my _role_ , my Lord?" 

"My name is Jon-" he says, and she looks like, quite frankly, she doesn't really care. "-Jon Snow."

"So you're a bastard of the North?" she asks, curious amidst her coldness. Jon's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline at that.

"Beg your bloody pardon?" he bites out, pushing her hands off of his collar. She looks at him, then squints at his clothing, as if she had never seen a man wear a goddamned shirt and vest before.

"...What on earth are you wearing?"

"Clothes."

"I'm aware of that! But I've not seen this style before." she insists, before shaking herself out of it, looking to the Heart tree, then to Jon. Then back to the tree. "Gods..." she murmurs, swallowing. "I've heard of this happening before, in the songs. But I never- well, I never suspected one would land on my lap. Quite literally."

Jon looks at the tree, then back at the redhead, then back to the tree. "...Sorry, what?"

"Honestly..." she sighs softly, looking at him tiredly. Like how one might look at a child who keeps asking questions. "Do you know nothing, Jon Snow?"

Ice settles in his stomach at that, and he scrambles away from her until his back hits the tree. "Where'd you hear that?" he asks, eyes wide. Was she a stalker? Did she follow him up here? Listen into him and Ygritte making love? He feels positively ill at the thought. 

"...well I don't imagine it's a common saying. I'm just asking if you know nothing about what has happened here today, Jon Snow." she says, completely reasonable. He hates that she's being rational right now. "Don't you see?" 

"See what?" he asks, irritation creeping into his tone.

Blue eyes meet grey. Guiltily, he feels an odd zing go up his spine at the eye contact. He tries not to wonder if she can feel it too. _Ygritte, you'll be meeting her soon, once this bloody weird conversation is over and done with. Think of Ygritte, warm and wet and waiting for you._

"There's tales of people travelling through the Heart Trees," she informs him, hands clasped on her lap. "People from different worlds, different times... I think you might be one of them."

The ice comes back again. He thinks it might freeze him over entirely. "...One of what? A... what, a time traveller?" 

'Sansa' purses her lips, she seems to do that a lot when she's thinking. But she nods. "There's a lot of terms for it but... yes, I think you might be."

 _Jesus fuck,_ he hopes she's just stalking him. That she's just talking out of her backside and that none of this is real. But... he starts to listen. Faintly, he can hear laughter and chatter from the castle. Can hear something hammering metal. Can even smell smoke, presumably from the kitchens or the blacksmith's. He starts to feel nauseated.

"Fuck." is all he is able to whisper, horrified to the core.


	2. Sansa I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks! So sorry for the delay in this chapter, life's been hectic (for all of us, I'm sure!). Apologies for how short this chapter is, the next one should be a little longer and up sooner, hopefully! Enjoy Sansa's pov! Hope you're all staying safe out there! <3

He'd fainted.

Sansa can't help but stare at the man, her Tully blue eyes wide with... shock? Surprise? She's not sure what emotion she's feeling at the moment as she looks at him, carefully taking in his features. Dark, thick hair. A furrowed brow even as he's unconscious, a nose that looks like it'd been broken at least once before. Her fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and trail her fingers along his smooth jaw.

Curious.

His eyes had been a stormy grey, and her stomach had felt warm when he'd looked at her. It's not so dissimilar to the feeling she'd had when she was younger and had been a giggly girl in front of boys. Interesting.

She can't leave him here but... she has to get help. And maybe come up with a cover story as to why he's here. Jon Snow. Is Snow not a bastard's name whenever he's from? But she can work with it, she's sure. She's always been good at coming up with stories as a girl. This shall be no different. 

Sansa stands up, neatly smoothing down her dress and curiously staring at the man once more, rather reluctant to leave him here alone. But, she shall do what she must. First... she grabs a rock and stares at him, biting her lip anxiously. She'll need to make this convincing. She crouches beside him, neatly smoothing his hair back off of his forehead... before bringing the rock down hard enough to break through skin, but not hard enough to kill or seriously hurt him. Robb had taught her and Arya about the correct pressure to use. 

"You won't always have a guard or a man around-" he'd told them, cut off by Arya's scoff and glower and Sansa's carefully lifted eyebrow and piercing stare. They loved their brother, but Robb could be such a _boy_ sometimes. He'd coughed uncomfortably and moved on to telling them that pretty much anything could be used in defence if they hit hard enough, but to make sure they didn't hit _too_ hard lest they have blood on their hands. 

Sansa watches the blood drip down Jon's forehead, and she wipes the blood onto her gloves before tossing the rock as far as she can. No one will suspect or know a thing. He could have stumbled in from Wintertown or elsewhere. She would have to make sure to keep an eye on him so that they could keep his secret, and so that once he woke up, she could let him know the cover story. It would be easy. A bastard of the North who doesn't remember anything but his name thanks to his head wound. But she'll help him as best as she can; help him learn of this life. 

She takes a deep breath, walks a few feet, and then shouts for her guard.

* * *

Sansa brushes her hair, scanning her face in the mirror. No telltale signs that she isn't telling the truth. She's gotten oddly _good_ at keeping secrets and her emotions in check. Perhaps it was because she'd started shadowing her father and mother in meetings alongside Robb. She wasn't due to inherit Winterfell or anything of the sort, but she'd pointed out it would be good experience for when she would run her own household. 

Thank the gods her parents had agreed, for it had given her the experience and reality kick she'd needed. She had seen the trials and sufferings of the Northmen, had seen their joy and contentedness. She'd seen it all, and she was a girl who dreamed of songs and princes no longer. 

Though a part of her whispered that this Jon Snow looked like a prince from the songs, here to whisk her away and show her wonderful things. She tries to ignore this part of her, for he was a man she'd just recently met, one who had quite literally fallen into her lap.

Speaking of; he was in one of the many guest rooms here at Winterfell, peacefully sleeping. Sansa had asked the maester to fetch for her the moment he awoke. She would have to ensure that he knew of his cover story in order to avoid any unwanted questions.

The urge to keep him safe is consuming, but not unwelcome.

She tries not to think about it for too long.

* * *

When Jon Snow wakes up the next morning, Sansa is immediately fetched. Not because she had told the Maester to fetch her, no, but because this Jon Snow had _asked_ for her. It's a little silly how she smiles at the thought, how she makes sure her hair looks good. She's nearing twenty, and yet she still wants to impress a man whom she barely knows. 

Ridiculous, if you ask her. Or Arya, she'd most definitely snicker at Sansa for this.

Still, she neatly knocks on the door to Jon's chambers, hears his call for her to come inside. She does, quietly shutting the door behind her and moving over to the bed, neatly smoothing down her skirts before sitting down on the chair beside him. "How are you feeling?" she asks him softly, and his lips quirk a little.

"Like someone hit me over the head with a rock." he tells her, arching a brow. "I know well enough that I wasn't near anything of the sort when I..." he shifts, seemingly uncomfortable with speaking about the fact that he had fainted.

Sansa merely smiles at him, glancing down at the furs and bed linens for a moment. "You didn't hit anything. I... thought it might be necessary in order to maintain a cover story of sorts."

"Cover story?" he repeats, brows furrowed. A soft sigh escapes her.

"Yes, a cover story. You can't go around telling people that you touched a tree and happened to fall back centuries in time." she points out, arching a brow at him, almost smiling when his cheeks go red with embarrassment. "Not many are as inclined to believe in the nature of some stories as I am, Jon Snow."

"Shame, it'd make this a right lot easier." he mutters, and she _does_ smile this time.

"Indeed. Now, your name is Jon Snow, you're a bastard all the way from Mole's town, you lived right outside of it with your mother before she passed and you're an only child..."

They spend the next hour or so smoothing out the details, even the pointless little ones like his favourite song. Silly details no one would ask about, but it was best to think of nonetheless should suspicions arise. 

With how thorough they were being... well, Sansa doubts that anyone would suspect a thing.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> So, I started watching Outlander recently, and I adore the show! However, what inspired me to make this fic was https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K7TMRSbZif0 THIS video!! It's honestly incredible and really made me want to do this au!
> 
> Sit back, relax, and enjoy the Jonsa Outlander au! Provided I don't mess them up while writing this lol


End file.
